


Waynoka

by Suecue



Category: Wanted: Dead or Alive
Genre: F/M, High Plains Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suecue/pseuds/Suecue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ambushed and presumed dead, Josh isn't prepared for what comes next. He never saw this coming in a million years. Steve McQ, sigh... My all-time celebrity crush. Josh/OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He's alive, by some miracle, doesn't thoroughly believe in them, but he can't argue with being able to open his eyes, hear the popping close to him. He breathes, swallows, is thankful that the bullets to his gut, didn't finish him. More scars to add to the corporeal tally, he thinks, mumbling to himself. Then he sighs, hearing the boastful wind howl outside beyond these aboriginal confines. He turns his head to squint at the fire crackling as it burns mere inches from him in the center of this native home. The air all around smells pungent, like moldering grapes and the scent of fear he's often smelt. He's no stranger to these dwellings, has been in one, has even slept in one before. He wonders what he's doing in one again now. For as many times, the thought hammers, he isn't dead, could have died, left for dead. He has cheated the Grim Reaper yet another time. That wind out there carries such a mournful sound. A constant reminder that being at the mercy of the elements and chance is his reality. The last memory he has is of being bushwhacked, a little ways out from Central City in Cheyenne country, where hilly terrain gradually gives way to sky-scraping mountains.

This tipi and the sounds beyond it tell him he is among them. For how long? They kept him alive? Well, it wouldn't be the first time the natives in these parts did him a good turn. He wonders if he knows this band responsible for keeping him alive.

What a sad state of affairs. The last time he'd been blindsided, he had come off without a scratch. That's a far cry from what's happened this time. Bushwhacked lived up to its name, he thinks, grimacing, then needing to pause when his wounds speak up. It's his world of hurt and he needs a long moment to battle the sharp pain piercing the lower left side of his tender belly. He concentrates to alter his focus, which reroutes what he feels. One moment he'd been patting the side of his faithful quarter horse, Ringo's neck, and a second later, guns had blazed and bullets had whizzed as they'd flown like a swarm of angry bees. Two had found their marks, but miraculously, had gone clean through as he got knocked off Ringo's back on impact. His horse had run off and he'd passed out after crawling through dust and gravel until he'd reached a propitious outcropping.

"Never even saw one man," he says, which comes out hoarsely. "What were they up to? Had a hankering for target practice, then I happened along and I got to be the coyote?"

Josh, forcing himself to breathe more evenly, wonders if he'll ever see his four-legged loyal companion again. As if on cue, the canny animal's nicker reaches his ears and beneath these smothering layers of furry hides he sighs another sigh of relief. It's so warm, maybe a little too warm. Beaded sweat stands on his forehead, a drop or two on either side of his face drip down. As the howling gusts threaten to rip this firmly-secured nomadic resting place from the ground, he makes a deal with himself. Wheeling and dealing is nothing new. He's built his life around the constant tug of give and take.

He feels for his shortened rifle, the Mare's Leg. His probing is done gingerly, and not locating the weapon in its usual place frustrates him. When he's minus his rifle, it's as if a hand is missing. He's never had to replace his special firearm, but there's always a first time. This might be it, unless, and he really hopes so, his caretakers retrieved it and have no intention of keeping it for themselves. He thinks it's a good idea to stage a search for the Winchester, starting with the immediate area.

The deal is: He'll get to his feet, find his firearm and head out.

"Sit up, not too fast mind you, and if that isn't too much, try standing," he tells himself; doesn't believe it's too much to ask. He's lost all track of time, doesn't know how long he's been here as he lay, out cold. He gives his intention a try, only to find that what felt like a good idea is anything but. He can hardly raise up on his crooked elbows let alone lift himself up enough to hunker. So, he let's the matter of his getting up to walk out of here sit. Ringo nickers, louder this time, and Josh feels powerless to answer his call. He wonders if the horse is thirsty; he hopes not as thirsty as he is. Smacking lips that feel cracked, he hopes for water. "So...thirsty." He closes his bloodshot eyes, willing the desire to quench his thirst away. Easier said than make happen.

But, it does, not because he can work magic in the surreal sense. His desire becomes reality in the form of a shapely native maiden with skin the color of cinnamon, pulling the tipi flap aside to enter with what he thirsts for. Fresh, cool water from the nearby stream, which she bears in the waterskin she carries. Shafts of warm, bright sunshine accompany her, bathing the interior of the tipi in resplendent light, as she smiles sweetly at him.

His eyes pop, and hers, identical in color to her hair, never leave his face that broadcasts his surprise. Though not at his best, he's determined to make the effort. He's a gentleman, and a lady is a lady, whether she be as white as he is, or any gradation of pigmentation under the sun. His view of non-white folks conflicts with popular notions on the subject. That is no concern of his. Anyone who knows Josh Randall is all too aware that no one in their right mind tells him how he must think or act. Those who had ever tried had received a good lesson in the wisdom of backing off.

One of many of his rules of thumb is a person can no sooner help what he or she'd been born than convince gold-hungry prospectors to trade their genuine treasure for a lode of pyrite. In these parts, Fool's Gold was all too plentiful, tricking many a gullible soul.

Graceful as a doe, the petite young woman inches nearer to him, the ends of her sleek, long hair, the color of ravens, brush her waist. Josh makes what he wants known through gestures, wincing through each one he makes. She's thinking over whether she'll be safe if she get closer, he can tell. It's up to him to convince her he's harmless. He's that, regardless of his present state of sad health. He would never think of hurting someone who looks as pretty and as fragile as she, unless she were holding a knife to his throat.

Softer than a gentle wind, he encourages, "Think I could have some of that?" He jabs his chin at the waterskin, then reminds himself how improbable it is she understands. "Speak?" Dollface gives him the biggest, roundest eyes he's ever seen, training them on him until she doesn't seem real anymore. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I just need water." He smiles, not to beguile, but to appease. He's unique, not the typical four flushing paleface, who lives up to the reputation of habitually speaking with a snakelike tongue.

He supposes he made himself understandable enough. His reticent visitor is at his side, kneeling, apparently better at ease. She offers Josh the waterskin and when she sees he's having trouble bringing the unstoppered carrier of liquids to his lips, she obliges, holding the container just so. Her assistance really helps, making his attempt to drink that much easier. The water is so good, with a hint of peppermint flavor. He guzzles and guzzles until the velvety waterskin is nearly drained. Water spills from the corner of his mouth. "Thanks," he offers with gratitude and a muffled burp, drying his lips with the back of a hand, then does a better job of it by wiping his mouth dry against the crook of his inner elbow skin. He makes a few guesses about what has become of his shirt marred by bullet holes. He adjusts himself, ignoring the discomfort caused by deliberate movement.

My, my, my...

His sight for sore eyes is burning holes in him, and then, as if she's been holding her breath all this time, along with giving the impression she was a mute, the maiden finally releases, "Mo-re?"

Josh passes his wince off as a grin. "Holding out on me, eh?"

She repeats that first word he's ever heard her speak, this time more confidently while proffering the waterskin. "More?" Then she remembers it's all but empty, and rises quickly from his side.

He gets the feeling that if he says too much, she'll leap away like a skittish doe. She looks the right deer, in both senses of the homonym. He takes that chance, which he deems is worth taking. How much English does she know? "So, you speak."

And she also feels it's her duty to see that her father's badly-injured guest is well-taken care of. This very white pale man, with eyes as blue as mountain lakes, is her responsibility. Her father, the Chief, must save face, which is her responsibility too. She rushes the words, but they come out coherently enough. "I get more. You drink much. I go."

Quick to put a stop to her impromptu departure, Josh raises the hand that had grazed hers as she'd held the waterskin for him. The brief, unexpected contact sparked something in him, something he couldn't have predicted. He needs answers, but having her near is a comfort in his weakened condition. He's a solitary man, who travels lonely paths, experiencing a vulnerability he's never felt before. Whom did he have to get him through times like this? A sawbones to patch him up and tell him he needed to change his line of work? A sheriff in some backwater town to hand over bounty money he'd risked his life to earn? A saloon girl in still another of those many little towns he might call on for a spell, then ride off into the prairie in pursuit of yet another dangerous fugitive from justice? He knows folks, but they know him as a man with no roots, who merely passes through. "Don't go. No. Stay. Stay." Before rushing out of the tipi, the maiden holds off and Josh quickly exhales with a jerky quirk of his index finger for reeling her back in, "That's right. Talk. We talk more." When she kneels at his side again, he extends the same finger to twirl a silky wisp of black hair about his finger. "What's your name?" he gently asks.

"Name..."

"Yeah. Your name." He went first. "I'm Josh." The other finger of his other hand points squarely to the middle of his bare chest. "You?" Now he points at her.

As though he sees her cerebral wheels turning, the maiden sounds out the word 'name' again, then erupts, "My name."

"That's right, honey," Josh cajoles, snagging a bit more of her lustrous locks between calloused fingers. "Your name."

Her lips form the syllables as her pert little nose twitches. Her painstaking effort gives birth to, "Way-no-ka. My name."

Softly, Josh drawls, "Pleased to meet ya, Waynoka." The saucy look in his eyes precedes his wink. "I once had a rifle, about yea big." It smarted when he illustrated, but he ignored what hurt like he'd been struck by white lightning. "Have you seen it?"


	2. Chapter 2

Josh has a feeling trying to explain about his rifle is too complicated for her. After another minute or so, he acts out what the weapon did, hoping she'd catch on. She stares at the bounty hunter with wide eyes, as saucer-like as they could be, her pupils, the color of midnight, shining. Hands down, she is the most beautiful girl he's ever laid eyes on, deep-complexioned or fairer than pale. Unable to help himself, Josh losses himself in those scintillating eyes for several expectant moments.

Until the tee pee walls start folding in on him and spin. He is falling off then ends of the earth, crams his mind.

He slides out of his groggy reverie and gently tries again, feeling smothered. He decides to improvise, imitating the sound his rifle would make and finishes his depicting off with a rapid-fire, "Bang-bang," nailing the sound effect. His smile quickly fades when his gut begins hurting more acutely, forcing him to ease off until the heightened pain subsides. He hopes it subsides and soon. He has a much better idea of how hot it is inside a pot-belly stove since his belly is on fire. More sweat beads, big and profuse, saturate his feverish brow. More water he thinks to ask for, through lips that are parched, and the ravishing maid promptly obliges.

Once having his fill, his pain tapers off during the next few minutes. Lying flat on his back, with his head resting on a coarsely-weaved pillow, Josh lets out a long, slow breath. Coughing a little at the end. Waynoka settles the blankets he's displaced over him carefully, attentive to any sign that he needs something else. He's a stubborn one; that was Josh. Though burning up and losing a grip on reality, his febrile mind still has one thing on it.

"I-I n-need my rifle. Rifle?" He feels like telling her to douse the fire. It is hotter than Death Valley in here. "W-where is i-it?"

Though knowledge of his language isn't as sturdy as it once was, it's not her lack of comprehension nor inability to form words that keep her from giving him what he wants. He's asking for his rifle and she can't remember exactly where she's put it. She thinks to go to where placed his horse's saddle, here in the tee pee. Ah, memory does serve. Sure enough, there it is, wedged beneath the equipment. She has it in her hands the precise moment Josh reopens his tired eyes. His look is pointed, seeing what Waynoka holds, he informs, "Yeah. That's it. Now, b-bring it h-here." It's plain she's debating whether she should or not. His wits about himself not the best, Josh pours every ounce of himself into his persuasion as he watches her straighten to her feet and inch nearer to him. He motions to her with outstretched arms, his hands yerk-jerking to seal the deal. Not like pulling teeth, but close enough. She totes his customized weapon with the barrel aiming squarely at him.

"E-easy, easy now," Josh guides, supporting himself on one elbow, noting the choke hold she has on the Mare's Leg. The hand-off goes smoothly, he silently rejoices, with Waynoka looking quite pleased with herself. He allows himself a short sigh of relief.

"Your..." She pieces together the sound of the word with the actual thing and comes up with the right terminology. "Rifle." That lady was right, she thinks. Disuse turns a thing into of no use. As she smiles, she murmurs, "Your rifle."

Through clenched teeth, he mutters, "Y-yeah. Th-that's g-good." Just smiling was like lifting a foothill of the Rockies. Not that she wasn't worth a wagon train of smiles if he weren't ailing, at death's door, as bad as he feels. Trying to impress this swarthy, sloe-eyed looker with one foot in the grave is hard to pull off. To have his rifle with him again is like welcoming an old friend home. When Josh groans, Waynoka, looks concerned, regarding him hard. She's thinking what needs to be done next. He groans again loudly and she wastes no time administering a sodden rag to his sheeny forehead. He tries focusing on her face, but that proves to be another tough feat to add to adversity. As though punch-drunk, Josh wrestles with himself, managing to focus on her, even though she appears to flicker before his heavy eyes like flames dancing in the fire.

Though he grips the rifle like it might fly out of his hands at any second, in time, she eases it out of his hands, over his protests. They being very weak as though coming from a mewling mountain lion cub. He worries for nothing since all she wants to do is to tuck it against his side. She has no intention of depriving him of it. By the way he acts, she knows his weapon is important to him. Weaponry matters to men, whether they be Cheyenne or paleface.

She speaks slowly, deliberately, sounding out each word as a young child would. "No one here takes your rifle from you. It is yours, of your people. My people, we have ours." Sounding patient, she insists, "Rest." Pride wells up within her. With use comes remembrance. Proficiency won't be far behind if she keeps with making the 'white' words. The words of this mighty people, who have come into their country. They've come, and have brought much to ponder, as well as agonize over too. Her father will be proud of her accomplishment since he had decided he'd made the right decision by sending his only child to that place where she could learn the words of the palefaces. Had it had been as wise a decision as he'd thought? The white women, who had finally won her father over to the notion of having her learn, had been very persuasive. She'd been just seven when she'd gone away. Hadn't understood why she'd had to go, had often thought of her being sent away as a punishment. Though, she hadn't been able to recollect what she'd done wrong.

That had been a long while ago, many, many moons. She isn't a little girl anymore. All of nineteen, and comely, is she now, with no desire to forsake her people ever again. Having insisted on returning to where she felt she belonged, she is the tribe's spokeswoman in all 'foreign' affairs. Her desire to teach others what she knows is strong, but the majority of the adults, along with their children, aren't interested. Learn the language of the double- and forked-tongued outsiders holds no appeal.

Though friendlier than most bands in these parts, this tribe preferred to keep to itself until unforeseen circumstances had their own way of altering their tried-and true practice.

Chief Hiamovi might be considered too progressive for his and his people's own good. But, few, who have enough sense, argue with him. Disputing outrightly with the patriarch is pointless. Instead, the better way proves to be going along, having her father believe an idea handed to him is his from the start.

Studying Josh like a tracking scout poring over a trail sign, Waynoka squats close, carefully taking stock of the fallen man with hair the color of feather grass tufts. Deliriously, he feels for the Mare's Leg and when his hand hits upon it, he draws it to himself to snuggle with the shortened weapon. When eventually he losses consciousness, yet again, she pulls back the blankets and wrappings to have a look at his injuries. The discoloration around his angry wounds has lessened, but she judges his welts have grown bigger. More salve needs to be applied and new wrappings should replace these old ones. They'll be discarded and burned.

Time to reintroduce the healer to Josh. She holds off a moment longer before rising. Vigilant, she continues to gaze at this ashen man. A strange impulse drives her, demanding she plunge her slender fingers into his short, damp hair. They wallow in the sticky softness of his scalp and her hand remains rooted where it is, liking the affecting sensation of having his pate against her skin.

Blearily, Josh blinks, shunting in and out of consciousness. Waynoka soothingly rubs his head, whispering words he doesn't understand. He must be dreaming hits him. As soon as he falls off again, she goes for the healer.


	3. Chapter 3

When he comes to, his hands instinctively search for the Mare's leg, which rests at his side. Josh gives its short buttstock a few pats in reassurance. He remembers the pretty native girl saying no one would take his rifle, nobody wanted it. Though finding that hard to believe, he's glad it's in his possession. He feels better having his weapon just in case his status as a guest changes. It's also good to know he isn't butt naked. At least he's got his pants, which are bloodstained, grimy, but he's wearing them. Groggy, he can't help wondering where the girl is. What was her name? Something that sounded nice to the ear, he thinks he remembers. Following a stretch of not being able to recall what her name is with any accuracy, he gives up. He does until, she reappears. As if his having thought about where she is brings her to him.

On more careful examination, perusing her with intense eyes he forces not to be so out of focus, he sizes her up. By the ghastly look of her face, coupled with a sickening flow of blood spilling from a spot on her forehead, something is terribly wrong. Her face is marred by terror, disfigured, as a result of unimaginable tragedy, slaughter and devastation eclipsing words.

"Hey," he extends, wincing. His belly no longer burns, but tingles and pricks. His wounds, he examines, gingerly lifting up the herbal poultices, are coming along, no longer looking as angry as they had a while ago. The abscesses have gone way down. He can't recall how long it's been since he was conscious. A day ago, two? Or, could it have been only a half hour ago, twenty minutes, tops? What day is this? His inability to grip a surer sense of time is unnerving. Shaking off his disorientation, Josh manages to sit propped up on an elbow. The girl is in a bad way, considerably. What's wrong?

Having sunk to her knees, rubbing her fists into her eyes, and sobbing, she's wailing something in Cheyenne, something incomprehensible, like a dirge, mournful, inconsolable, replete with rack and ruin. The light and life in her has been dashed, mirroring what has happened to this tribal village of peaceful people, who had never raised a hand in strife against a people growing swiftly in sheer numbers, who are dead-set on owning what belongs to the Cheyenne.

"What is it?" Josh orders. It is then he becomes aware of the intense, suffocative stench of death and destruction mingled with conflagration.

As disgust and bewilderment flood her, she answers with frantic, violent shakes of her head, with eyes ablaze. Never, for as long as she lives, will she ever forget what she's witnessed, the hideous slaughtering of all whom she has loved. A survivor, she is, at the cost of her sanity.

Frantically, Josh shouts, "What's happened?" Watching her scramble to the other end of the tipi, as she tries taking herself as far away from the entrance as possible, he listens to the tumultuous roar of the massacre's aftermath beyond this tipi that still stands. That has somehow escaped being set ablaze while most of them went up like kindling. Providence provided. Again, he grouses, "What goes on here?" In the same breath, he conjectures, "Nothing good." Josh grunts, as, with a powerful will, he hassles to lift himself up from the floor and the soiled bedding. The air inside this simple dwelling is stifling, a hot miasma of smoke and ashes. Steeling himself after his head has spun, he plans his next move. The concentration of soot makes breathing an ordeal. Despite his enfeebled condition, Josh, coughing, seeing her like this hurts him more than physical ills.

Did she have enough words? Ones potent enough that could effectively convey the scathing horror she has managed by some miracle to survive?

Chief Hiamovi, the father whom she dearly loves, would obey without question, is dead. Aruna's, her mother, her name meaning 'Dawn,' lifeless, charred body lies outside the family's burned down to the ground tipi alongside Hiamovi. They are hardly the only victims. Every man, woman and child of the modest tribe, numbering a mere fifty people, save Waynoka, is gone. Perished in the holocaust. Her father's father, her mother's mother, her brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles are now mutilated carcasses. Slaughtered by the 3rd Colorado Calvary, mostly of die-hard volunteers, avid for razing Cheyenne and Arapaho, Sioux, Comanche and Kiowa camps. Reasons? Crimes? Supposedly, the natives are guilty of attacking wagon trains, mining camps and stagecoach lines. Which has occurred at one time or another. No side is wholly innocent. Attacks, followed by reprisals are common on both sides.

The true bone of contention, however, was this band of Cheyenne's unwillingness, despite a host of strong-arm tactics brought to bear, to sell their lands and their adamant refusal to be carted off to settle on government-regulated reservations. Hiamovi could not be 'persuaded' to give up territory, their ancient, sacred inheritance, that lay ripe for the picking to satisfy voracious land-grabbers. When would enough be enough? When every last native would be left with nothing? Proof of that presently lits up the nighttime countryside as what was once her home is now in ruins.

All she can muster through clenched teeth is, "Dead, all dead. Gone. All is gone. All lost!"

"What the-" The notion forming in his head is revolting.

"My people all killed!" Waynoka levels at Josh, her mind and heart crying out in agony as she relives the inconceivable devastation, at the hands of butchers, in her mind's eye. She crumples yet again, and Josh wars with himself. "All dead," she whimpers.

Those responsible for the mass murder aren't people, not by a long shot, he rages. Monsters did this to her people!

"Killed by men like you!" Waynoka unleashes, lashing out with a dazed, woebegone expression poisoning the delicate features of her twisting face.

Washed-out, but all descriptions of stubborn, Josh pulls himself up onto his legs that are none too steady, as if in a trance. He blinks at her, spewing language that is mostly foul. He has thought it before and has no trouble thinking this again. Is he coming out of a bad dream? One he's had before? A hand flies to his head. Wooh, maybe not the best idea to have gotten up as quickly as he did, but it makes him feel more in control of things being on his feet again. Stumbling as he staggers over to her, seeing her flinching as she tries to get away from him, Josh reaches his other hand out to her. "No one's gonna hurt you. I swear. No one. Not while I'm around." Swaying as he is in front of her, the hand extended toward her begins clawing the air as though his use of it alone will somehow stabilize him. Prevent him from crashing to the lined floor. Feeling as faint as can be, and about to, Josh bucks up, making himself ignore the tipi walls vibrating all around him. He isn't as successful as he wishes he were as the sensation of spinning worsens. Several deep breaths later, he doesn't fall flat on his face.

But, soon, he feels steadier arms embrace him, shoulders first. In Waynoka's gentle, yet firm embrace, he hears her say, "Come. I will help you. We don't die here."

Woozily, he retorts, "You bet we don't..." Hastily as an afterthought, and agitated, he demands, "W-where's Ringo?"

"Ring-o? Who Ring-o?" she demands, dragging him along to make it out of the tipi before the saturation of incendiary embers scudding in the wind set this tipi, one of the few surviving dwellings, aflame.

"Ringo's m-my hor-horse. My horse..." Josh frets, unable to wrap his mind around the notion that maybe his prized possession is dead too.

"Ring-o," she says, sounding proud. His horse and she have become fast friends. She loves horses, especially ones that are lightning fast, and canny. "Your horse smart. The bluecoats came. Began killing and putting fire to the camp. He ran off-"

"He's not dead." Relief saturates Josh's thin voice as his legs nearly buckle. "He's gone though," he laments, crestfallen. Then rebukes himself. How does the loss of his horse compare to so many human deaths?

"He went, but came back."

Appreciative, but quick to note the note of surrender in her voice, Josh supports himself against her supple body, easy with how heavily he leans on her. His middle is smarting again as she takes charge, helping him limp out of the tipi.


End file.
